


gold, to airy thinness beat

by KivrinEngle



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Durin Family Angst, Gen, Slightly - Freeform, Stubborn Dwarves, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:02:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KivrinEngle/pseuds/KivrinEngle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fili and Kili have always been able to speak across any distance or barrier, drawn together by a bond stronger than mithril. Until they cannot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Six

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovelies! Some notes to kick things off!
> 
> 1\. It's that time of year again - my birthday! Almost. Being a proper Hobbit, I must give the best gifts I can to you all, but lack everything but words. So words you shall have!  
> 2\. This is a story told in 10 pieces - and out of order. I will post them one a day, and by the end, you will have the entire picture, ending on what will then actually be my birthday. I've always desperately wanted to tell a story this way, and as it's my birthday mathom, I shall.  
> 3\. The title is from John Donne's "Valediction", which is terrifyingly appropriate for this story.  
> 4\. Happy reading - and my sincere thanks for giving this story a try! I'd love to hear your thoughts as we go!

six

The first inkling Dís gets that anything has gone wrong comes over the morning meal, seven months since she has seen her youngest son. Balin stops by with the daily list of messages that must get through, and watches with gentle amusement as she goes to try to wake Fíli. He has grown more than two inches since his brother left, grown tall and gangly and always hungry, so she lets him eat a bit before they pester him with his duties. Balin eats as well, but only because she glares his protests into silence. They may not be rich any longer, and food may sometimes be hard to come by, but guests in her home will never go hungry. 

When Fíli has woken up enough to be capable of proper speech rather than incoherent mumbling, and of sitting upright rather than slumping heavily over his plate, she slides the list of messages across the table to him. “Your uncle needs these quickly,” she tells him. His eyebrows draw together in annoyance, and she sighs. It does not seem so much to ask. 

“Can’t it wait a bit?” he asks plaintively, giving her his best pleading look. “I’ve not even eaten yet!”

“You don’t have to stop, lad,” Balin reminds him, eyes twinkling with amusement. “We all know you lads can link in your sleep! I’m afraid I do need answers to some of those right away, though.”

Fíli shrugs, eyes half-closing as his face goes vacant. Dís exchanges a glance with Balin - maternal exasperation and fond amusement, all wrapped up in the constant amazement she feels watching the process. Balin still looks wistful at the sight, and she knows he is remembering what he has lost. It can be difficult to watch as an outsider, she knows full well. 

Fíli’s eyes shoot open, wide and frightened, and Dís clutches at the plate she is holding - too late. It clatters to the floor and smashes into sharp shards, and she does not notice. 

“He’s not there!” Fíli's voice is a harsh whisper, and his breathing is a rush of panic, instant and overwhelming. “Mama!”

“What do you mean?” Dís is at his side in an instant, wrapping one of his hands in both of hers. It’s an odd thing to focus on in that instant, but his fingernails are short and stubby now. He has been worrying at them. “Fíli, talk to me.”

“I cannot feel him! He isn’t there at all - not even a hint of him.” Fíli stares around, as if looking for his absent brother in the air. “I can always feel him, even when we aren’t talking. Where is Kíli?”

“Did something happen?” Balin’s voice is low and steady, and there is no hint of amusement in him now. He puts a hand on the side of Fíli’s face, directing his attention away from the building panic, keeping him grounded. “Listen to me, lad. What did you feel?”

“Nothing! I reached out, and there’s nothing there.” One hand goes out into midair, and Fíli looks as if he will burst into tears. They were too young for this, and Dís had known it all along. She tries to speak, but there is panic in her throat, cutting off her voice, and she cannot breathe. “Kíli!” Her son’s cry is a sword in her heart, and Dís puts a hand to her mouth. She will not think the worst. 

“Did you feel him go?” Balin asks, strong and dependable as solid bedrock. “Fíli, answer me! Was he attacked? You should have felt something!”

“I don’t know! I didn’t do anything wrong!” Fíli flings himself from his seat, but cannot decide where to go. He storms to the door, then spins around and comes back. He is lost. Dís sits in his empty seat and tries to breathe. Fíli needs her to be strong, but her baby may be gone, and she needs one moment - just one, and then the world will begin to turn again and she will have to stand and walk and breathe in a world gone even colder. 

“When did you lose the soul-link? Think, lad!” Balin asks. He follows Fíli, staying in arm’s length. 

“I don’t - I didn’t -” Fíli stutters. He runs his hands over his face and through his hair, leaving him wild-looking, nearly dangerous. “We spoke yesterday, but I haven’t tried to reach him since, and Mama, what if Kíli's dead?”

“He’s not,” she says firmly, even though her hands are shaking and her legs will not support her. “Fíli, he isn’t. Something has gone wrong, but he isn’t dead. You mustn’t think it!” She doesn’t believe it, but Fíli must. Dwarves who lose a soul-link, severed from a brother or sister or lover by death, often run mad or do themselves an injury in the first pains of the loss. If Kíli is gone, then something must have happened to Thorin as well, and Dís cannot lose all of the little family she has left in one day. 

She can mourn her son later. Better to mourn one than both.

Dís stands on weary feet and goes to her son, taking his hands in one of hers and putting her other to the side of his face, capturing his eyes. “We will find him, my son. We need your strength and ability to do that, though. Balin will work with you. He can help you with the soul-link. Can you not?” She turns to Balin at that, and the same sad certainty is in his eyes. He knows what she is doing. 

“Aye, lady,” he says in a sorrowful breath. She watches him gather his strength, and put a hand on Fíli's shoulder. “There are many forces that can interfere with the soul-link at these distances, lad. The enchantments of the Elves have been known to delay the contact, and there are illnesses or injuries that can make a Dwarf lose the link temporarily.”

“It doesn’t feel lost,” Fíli says. He takes such pride in his composure these days. It has been many years since Dís has seen her oldest weep - but there are tears in his eyes, and his voice is destroyed. “He’s just gone.” 

“Keep it together, lad,” Balin says firmly. “You and your brother were chosen for this task because Thorin believed you were ready and capable. You mustn’t go all to pieces at the first bump!”

“I was ready!” Fíli roars. His voice cracks. He is still so very young. “Kíli was too young! I told Uncle Thorin! I told you!” He looks at Dís - looks down, she realises with shock, because her wee lad is taller than she is these days, and when did that happen? “He was too small. He was not prepared to fight!”

“Thorin thought him ready,” Balin admonishes, gripping his shoulder tight. “And he would not have been fighting alone. Dwalin and Thorin and all the rest were prepared to defend him with all they had. Do not despair of them yet!”

He presses the back of his hand against his mouth and turns away, shaking all over. She will lose him, too. 

“I lost both of my brothers in one day,” Dís says abruptly, desperation tearing the words from her mouth - and it does the trick. He turns back to stare at her in shock, and she gives a tiny shrug. “Or so I thought. We had a most unusual soul-link when we were children. I could reach both of my brothers in turn, and Thorin and Frerin were nearly inseparable.” She passes a gentle hand over Fíli's forehead, lifting the hair off his face. “Rather like you and Kíli, in fact.”

“I knew they were connected, but I did not know you shared the link! Strange times, to see three Dwarves share a soul-bond,” Balin says, wonderingly. She nods.

“When they went to battle, I stayed with them. I saw it all through Frerin’s eyes, and felt Thorin’s rage. And then, they were both gone, in a single instant.” She closes her eyes at the memory of the agony that had swept over her in that moment, when the entire world had stopped. Her heart breaks for her son. 

“But Uncle Thorin returned!” Fíli protests.

“Aye, he did. He walked through the same door he departed from, and I nearly died of fright.” She smiles at him - a fearful, quavering thing unworthy of her status and position, but she is a mother before anything, and she will give him what he needs, though it cleave her soul asunder. “The soul-link went through Frerin, we learned. It was broken that day. Thorin and I have never spoken again that way - but I still have my brother.” 

“And do I, Mama?” It is the worst sound she has ever heard, and Dís breaks apart a little more. She pulls Fíli into her arms, where he stands like a carven thing, trembling all over, and she pours all the love she can into him. She knows it will not be enough.

“Always, my love,” she whispers. “Nothing will ever change that.”

Fíli sleeps after a while, or perhaps passes out, worn down with tears and heavy sorrow. He looks young and troubled even in sleep, inclining his body toward the empty bed where Kíli has not slept in what feels like a lifetime. She watches him a long while, arms wrapped tight around her middle to ward off the worst of the pain, but it comes in waves she cannot avoid or ignore. Balin takes her arm gently and leads her away to a seat by the window, and kindly pretends not to notice as she weeps in a manner entirely unbecoming of her station. 

“How will we keep Fíli with us?” Dís asks after a long while, when her head aches almost as much as her heart for the loss of her little one. She will not see that wild, dark hair again, or the smile that brought so much sunshine to her poorly-lit little home. She will not hold him again. 

“We must not lose hope,” Balin begins, but she cuts him off, sitting up straight and putting her shoulders back as her mother had taught her so long ago.

“Do not coddle me, old friend. I have lost too much to pretend I can avert it with denial.” She puts out a hand, and he takes it in both of his, worn by long years and hard labor. “They are gone, and we must continue. We need Fíli”

He sighs with the weight of years, and nods sadly. “He must be kept busy. He is the heir to the throne, now, and he must be prepared.”

She shakes her head, and holds back the tears that would start again. She has not even had time to think of what the loss of Thorin will mean for all of them, or to begin to wrap her mind around that sorrow. It has torn open the wound of so many decades before, when she had believed Thorin and Frerin both lost in an instant, and she does not know how she will not go mad with the pain. 

“Kíli!” 

The cry from the back bedroom is torn from Fíli's heart, and Dís buries her face in her hands. She has lost nearly everything, and there is no way to protect Fíli from the pain that is upon him, or that which is yet to come as the loss sets in.

If Thorin is not lost as well, she will hate him for the remainder of her life.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, my ducks! I'm having far too much fun with this story, you must know, and I'm glad to hear some of you are excited about it! Thank you so very much for reading, and I hope not to disappoint!
> 
> This is section 2 of 10.

Two

Given three days to prepare himself for departure, Fili is packed and ready within an hour of Thorin’s announcement, and the boy follows him like a lost puppy every hour after that. He pesters Thorin with questions, asks to be taught more than the basic combat skills he already possesses, and pores over the sketchy old maps Thorin has prepared for their journey, as though he is already gazing upon the sights of those far-off lands. Dwalin threatens to skin him alive if he does not stop asking questions, and Fíli only laughs at that, ducking under his giant fists to pull a knife from his belt and brandish it proudly. The lad has no fear.

Kíli is with him, of course. There is no surprise to that. Since Kíli first learnt to toddle along on fat, unsteady legs, Fíli has taken his little brother everywhere with him - a dark little shadow to his golden brightness. Kíli watches them quietly, all wide-eyes and tempered suspicion, and Thorin knows he has displeased his youngest nephew. It cannot be helped. 

“Your turn will come, lad,” he tells Kíli quietly as Fíli spars with shadows and tries to invent his own form of martial arts against the wooden beams of the smithy. “The next time we travel to the sea, you can accompany us.”

“The safe journey, you mean,” he says evenly, and Thorin winces a bit. He remembers the resentment that comes with being a young Dwarf lad - eager to prove his worth, but not trusted by the adults to keep himself safe. He groans a bit, and drops a hand on Kíli's shoulder to bring him close, other hand reaching out to cup the back of his dark head. 

“Do not ask me to suffer your mother’s wrath by dragging you into danger,” he pleads, and watches as Kíli struggles not to crack a smile. He loses the fight, though, and Thorin softens into a smile of his own. “You will be ready to travel and fight with us in good time, I promise. Nothing will be gained by pushing ahead before your time.” He has seen what happens to Dwarves who fight too young. There is still an empty space in his heart and head that speaks to the consequences of rashness. 

Kíli shrugs, easy and free, and Thorin breathes a sigh of relief. “Fíli would rather go, at any rate. He would never forgive me if I went and he did not!”

Thorin nods acknowledgment of that truth. Fíli is trying to teach himself to mount a horse that a local farmer has brought to have shod, and he is likely to kill himself in the attempt, but the lad looks proud of his efforts. Thorin throws him out by his ear, and Kíli tags along after him, turning to offer Thorin a small, solemn wave as he leaves. 

He puts up with Fíli's pestering the next day, gritting his teeth and praying that his Maker will grant him the patience of stone and steel, the strength of mithril and diamond. He gives up before dinner.

“We leave tomorrow at mid-day,” he tells the boy, teeth firmly clenched on the words. “I do not wish to see you before that time. Prepare yourself, make your farewells, sleep until the last moment - whatever you choose to do will be well enough, so long as you leave me in peace to make my own preparations.”

“But Uncle!” Fíli protests, nearly quivering with poorly-repressed excitement. “I have so much to learn from you!”

“You have a great deal to learn indeed if you think such behaviour will make you a welcome traveling companion,” Dwalin growls. Had he not already been bald, Thorin is certain Fíli's antics over the past days would have left him so, all his hair torn out in silent frustration. 

Thorin nods once, agreeing with Dwalin’s pronouncement. “If you cannot heed direction before we have even left home, how can I trust you to follow my lead when we are in the wild? If the responsibility of the task is too much for you, nephew, you will be left behind.”

Fíli is out the door in a shot, nearly tripping over his feet in his anxious attempt to ingratiate himself with them again. Thorin chuckles, and Dwalin shakes his head. 

“It’ll end in tears, mark my word.” 

“The journey will do him good,” Thorin says mildly. “We were no better at his age.”

Dwalin gives a wordless grunt of agreement, and they say no more on the topic. 

Fíli is nowhere to be seen the next morning as the company gathers their things, beginning to check their inventory. Thorin is used to wandering with little more than the clothes on his back and a sword by his side, so he wanders through the growing muddle of Dwarves and equipment, clapping shoulders and testing the edges of blades that have seen little use in some time. They have grown used to peace in recent years, and it sticks in his throat like the stench of dragonsmoke. Peace will make them soft and unready, as they were before. Peace will do nothing to prepare them to retake their homeland. The meeting in the Iron Hills must serve to awaken their hearts for battle again, if he would not see himself the throneless king of a mob of tinkers and toymakers, scraping a living from the generosity of Men, such as it is. 

They are nearly prepared to leave as the sun approaches the height of the sky, and Thorin looks around, beginning to grow concerned. He had not truly believed Fíli could keep himself away so long. 

“This lad of yours - is he coming or not?” Bofur asks, tipping his hat back a bit on his head to peer up at the sun. “We’ve a fair way to go before nightfall, you know.”

“He’ll be here,” Thorin says, and squints down the road. “Look, here he comes.”

A small figure is racing toward them, kicking up a cloud of dust that half-obscures him from view, and Thorin nods satisfaction, turning to shoulder his gear. His nephew has done well to follow his instructions and return just in time - though it is odd to see one of the lads and not the other. He had expected Kíli to come along to say farewell. 

“Uncle!” He spins around at the shout, muscles going tense. It is Kíli's voice, not Fíli's “Uncle Thorin!”

Kíli reaches him in seconds, breathing hard, and Thorin reaches out to steady him. “What is the matter, Kíli?”

“It’s Fíli! He’s injured!” His heart speeds up, mouth going dry in an instant at the thought of harm befalling his nephew. “We were climbing the trees by the river, because Fíli said he needed to practice in case you wanted him to look ahead from the heights, and he fell!”

“Is he alive?” Dwalin asks quickly. He is Thorin’s voice in silence, now. 

Kíli nods furiously, eyes going wide at the very idea that his brother might have died. “Yes! I fetched Oin, and he says Fíli's leg is broken, but it will heal in time.” He is still breathing heavily, and Thorin shares a long look with Dwalin. Dwalin nods, slow and heavy, and Thorin inclines his head in agreement. 

“Very well,” Thorin says heavily. “Come with me, lad. Keep them moving, Dwalin. We need to move out as soon as I return.”

“But Fíli won’t be able to travel this way!” Kíli protests as they set off towards home, moving at the briskest pace Kíli's shorter legs can keep up with. “Oin gave him medicine for the pain, but he’s still feeling it.” 

“Can you feel it through him, through the link?” Thorin asks, intrigued. Kíli's eyes go distant and soft for a long moment, and Thorin hears the quiet hum of an old, old song - and then Kíli shakes his head.

“No. Should I?”

“It isn’t common, but sometimes you see it in extreme situations,” Thorin says grimly. He will speak no more of it. “Just keep him awake until we get there, if you can.”

Kíli nods sharply, face tense and set, and Thorin travels on with no more speech. Kíli is only half with him, now, the other part of him entwined with his brother - heart to heart, mind to mind, soul to soul. They are too young to understand the fullness of the soul-link. Perhaps it cannot be understood until it is lost, severed by time or distance or irreversible loss. Kíli walks with him, absent, and Thorin listens to the hum and thinks fast.

He must go to the Iron Hills, and it must be right away. There is no time to wait for Fíli to heal, and he cannot risk being away for so many months without contact with the Dwarves who remain behind. For many years, Dwalin and Balin had kept their soul-link active to serve for just such needs - but it was gone, now, weakened with age and ever-more-distant lives. There are no other Dwarves he knows with soul-links strong enough to bear the distance of the trip. 

They reach the humble home of his sister in record time, and Kíli darts inside without hesitation. Thorin goes to follow him, and is met by Dis, arms folded and face fierce. She blocks the door. 

“You cannot.”

“I must,” he says gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I swear to you we will keep him safe.”

“You cannot promise that! Bad enough to take Fíli - but at least he can defend himself! Kíli is not strong enough.”

“We will defend him, if it comes to that. Do you doubt that any Dwarf in our company would lay down their life for one of your sons?”

“You mean for your nephews,” she says bitterly, and turns away. “Fíli will never forgive you.”

“I cannot help that.” He ducks his head in a slow half-bow in respect to her grief, and goes through to the room his nephews have shared for long years. They are silent, but he knows that means nothing. Kíli is as close to his brother as he can get, hands wrapped around Fíli's arm - but Fíli is only half-conscious, and Oin’s drugs are potent. 

“Fíli?” Thorin pauses on the threshold of the door. “How are you?”

Fíli blinks up at him, blearily, and waves a hand through the air. “Be on my feet in no time, Uncle.”

“I’m sure you will,” Thorin says uneasily. He steps further into the room, gently moving Kíli aside to take his place. “But you know we cannot wait. The company must leave within the hour, or all our plans fall apart.”

“I’ll do it!” Fíli sits up quickly, and nearly falls out of his bed. “Have them cut me a walking stick and I will come! I will hop the entire way if I must!” 

Thorin shakes his head. “You know as well as I that you are not suited for the journey now. I will not risk an injured Dwarf on a journey of this length.”

“But you said you must have him!” Kíli protests, pushing his way back to Fíli's side and looking at Thorin fiercely. “How will you make the journey without a soul-link? There must be a way he can go! Is there a pony he could use?”

“There is not,” Thorin says. He truly does regret the necessity, especially as Fíli's face begins to fall, the truth setting in with the reality of his injury. “And you are right. I must have the soul-link.”

“No.” Fíli is frightened now, but not entirely for himself. He clutches at Kíli's sleeve. “You can’t, Uncle! He’s nowhere near prepared!”

“We usually aren’t,” Thorin agrees, lifting an eyebrow. “But Kíli must come with me, and we must leave right away.”

Fíli's face shutters closed, and Kíli winces in pain, shying away from his brother just a bit. Jealousy and hurt, Thorin is certain, and Fíli is too tired and medicated to control the link well. “But I am the elder! It was my trip!”

“Fíli,” Kíli says, a note of pleading in his voice. He reaches out to his brother, but Fíli yanks his arm away, face darkening in rage and disappointment. “Fíli, you said nothing would change! That’s still true, isn’t it? I can show you everything, the way you would have shown me!”

Fíli throws himself back against the pillows, flinging his rough blanket up over his face. “Go,” he says roughly. Kíli reaches toward him again, but Thorin shakes his head and stands, regret filling every part of his heart. He hates to leave his older nephew in such a state, and he is deeply wary of bringing Kíli along on such a journey, when he knows the lad is far from ready. A heavy weight of premonition settles on his heart as he looks at his nephews, and he knows something has already changed. They will not be the same when Kíli returns, no matter how close their soul-link.

“Time to go,” he tells Kíli quietly. Kíli is shocked, wide-eyed and silent, and Thorin pushes him gently from the room with a glance out the window. They have no time to waste. 

There is no time for a proper farewell. Dis hugs her son quickly, and he shoulders Fíli's pack anxiously as they step out the door. It is too large for him, by far, and Thorin knows they will have to repack it along the road to suit it better to Kíli's narrower shoulders - but that is a problem for later. 

Kíli walks by his side, shooting him nervous glances now and again, and Thorin tries to school his features into something less severe. He glances down at Kíli and offers a quick, encouraging smile. Kíli does not return it. 

“He won’t forgive me,” he says, a note of melancholy suffusing the words. “I’ve asked and asked, and he’s just pretending to sleep.”

“Give him time, lad,” Thorin advises. “Balin will speak with him later, I am sure, and your mother will make him see sense. He knows it was not my intention.”

Kíli nods, but his shoulders slump a bit, and he is somewhat vacant as they travel. He will have to stop apologising to his brother somewhere along the way. Thorin suppresses a sigh as he glances at the young Dwarf again. He is young and untested, with a clear lack of desire to be on this journey, and Thorin knows Kíli is fully aware that he was only the emergency option. If only Fíli had had the sense to steer clear of heights!

“Save us from the follies of youth,” he murmurs aloud to whatever power may hear him. Kíli hums an old song in silent apology, and Thorin squares his shoulders. It could be a long trip.


	3. Four

Four

 

Bofur will never have children.

It isn’t a fact that bothers him much at all. Some Dwarves simply never feel any compulsion to marry or have offspring, and for Bofur, there are more important things in life. It doesn’t mean he dislikes youngsters, of course, especially when they are as bright and personable as Thorin’s young nephews - he actually quite enjoys spending time with them, when the opportunity arises. 

It’s been obvious from the beginning of their journey that young Kíli is a bit out of his depth, and Bofur sympathises. It is always difficult to leave home for the first time, and they leave in such a rush that the poor lad is half dragged off his feet. As it turns out, he carries his brother’s pack, so the clothes and weapons and daily necessities are not even his own. It is a difficult beginning, and as he struggles to find his feet, Bofur does his best to help where he can. He grows fond of the lad in short order, and Kíli settles down as they travel. 

Four months into the journey, Kíli is beginning to find his feet. He can set traps and prepare basic food as well as any other Dwarf in their company, and they have found his eyesight keener than any others. Thorin often sends him up to a lookout point to scout ahead - though, Bofur notes with a hidden smile, their leader watches anxiously until his nephew is back on solid ground again. What happened to Fíli is clearly enough to make Thorin wary of the combination of heights and young Dwarves. 

They all take it in turns to help teach him skills. Dwalin insists the lad learn basic self-defense, and spars with him in the evenings, wearing down his young energy with the solid patience of age and experience. Kíli learns, and grows stronger. Thorin teaches him to wield a bow and arrow, but quickly stops the lessons, as it becomes obvious that Kíli has a natural gift for that particular weapon. He is a better shot than any of them within a month, and they all breathe easier knowing that he is capable of looking after himself, should they come to do battle along the road. Bofur keeps his eyes open, and collects likely-looking pieces of wood along the way, until he has carefully constructed a suitable gift. He gives the lad a bow and a quiver full of arrows of his own, and brushes aside thanks. They all do what they can to help.

It’s a strange thing, he muses, watching a youngster grow into his own skin. The journey changes them all - but Kíli has been so altered by it as to be almost a different Dwarf. The constant exposure to the sun has darkened his skin and lightened his hair, and the training and physical demands have added solid muscle to the lad’s lanky frame. He stands taller and laughs louder, daring to join in the conversations of his companions with increasing amounts of sparkling wit and wild humour. He is a good traveling companion, aside from his main usefulness to their quest.

Bofur is deeply uncomfortable with that, at first. He has never personally known Dwarves who share a soul-link, and Thorin tells them all from the beginning that his nephews share an uncommonly close bond. The moment he realises that Kíli's odd, absorbed look as he hums deep in his throat is him talking to his brother from far away, Bofur feels self-conscious, and tries to avoid talking to him at those times.

That is before he understands that Kíli is nearly continually in touch with his brother. 

For the first few weeks, he doubts there is a single moment where Kíli is not pushing some sight or sound or feeling toward far-off Fíli They all learn when they can interrupt and when they will not even be heard, as Kíli's attention wavers back and forth between the outer world and the secret universe of the lads’ shared souls. When he is not directly linked, Kíli talks of little else but his brother.

But all things change, with time. 

It is a slow change, hard to notice at first. Kíli's attention is with them more and more, and the distant hum that has marked his conversations with his brother is no longer a constant in Bofur’s ear. He relays the official messages between Thorin and his contacts at home faithfully, every morning and evening - and then every morning, and then every other morning.

Kíli updates Thorin on the news from home, and they all crowd around to listen every time, hoping to hear something of their loved ones. Bofur asks Kíli to pass messages to Bombur, hoping his younger brother is doing well - and is thrilled beyond measure when Kíli's eyes fly wide open one day, his face breaking into a brilliant grin.

“Fíli says Bombur’s wife has safely delivered her latest! A girl, more’s the fortune!”

“Thank the maker!” Bofur breathes, and then goes to break out the beer in celebration. He offers some to Kíli, and they all roar in delighted amusement when the lad winds up as drunk as any of them, joining them in their songs with no regard for tune or proper traditional wordings. It is a good evening - but Bofur never sees Kíli's face go carefully blank, or hears the song that means he is sharing the world with his brother. It makes something in him feel uncomfortable, and more than a little sad. 

Thorin never promises them any sort of safety, and those who have come to know him do not expect it any longer. It is not even a surprise when they are attacked - more of a certainty, Bofur knows, and hauls out his mattock with a sigh. It takes a moment to get into the feel of a fight, and he lets his blood come up to a boil as he takes stock. Their attackers are Men - wild, tangle-haired brutes with no intent to do anything but harm to them. It is not the first time he has faced such an enemy, and he knows it will not be the last. He could almost pity them for choosing their targets so poorly. Any marauders who think that taking on Thorin and Dwalin together is a wise option are not overly blessed with wits.

Dwalin has been spoiling for a fight, and throws himself into the fray with a roar of violent laughter; Thorin is only a step behind him, but he pauses long enough to push Kíli toward Bofur. The message comes across clear enough, even without a soul-link to carry it through. Bofur glues himself to the lad’s side, and they stick to the edge of the fray, picking off those who come in range of his mattock.

“What do I do?” Kíli's voice is a cry of near panic, and Bofur tries not to grin. A first battle is an unforgettable thing, and the lad deserves to do himself proud in this one. 

“Take your time, lad. Best not to move until you see your opening.” He smashes the sword out of a Man’s hand as the ruffian gets too close - and it doesn’t even deserve to be called a sword. He glances over at the lad, who is watching the fight intently, eyes wide, but not frightened. Thorin will be proud.

Dwalin gives a roar of anger, and Bofur spins to see a nightmare sight. One of the Men is advancing on Thorin, sword upraised, as Thorin struggles with two other huge brutes. Dwalin is too far away. Everyone is too far away. 

“No!” Kíli gasps, and he is a sudden explosion of motion at Bofur’s side. He has an arrow to his bow in an instant, and draws back to his cheek, arms shaking with fear and strain.

“Breathe!” Bofur shouts, and Kíli gives one jerky nod, exhales, and steadies himself. One more breath - and he looses the arrow, straight and true. The Man who had been about to take Thorin’s head off gives a harsh yell, dropping his sword, and Bofur breathes again. The arrow is lodged in his shoulder. 

The Men are gone in a minute, those who have survived the encounter, and Thorin comes directly to Kíli, looking him over for injuries. Kíli is wild-eyed and breathless, staring at his own hands. Thorin grabs hold of his shoulders, breathing a sigh of relief as he sees the lad is well. Bofur drops his mattock and shakes the tension from his shoulders. Not a bad fight, all things considered.

“You did well,” Thorin tells Kíli, pressing a comforting hand to the back of his head. “Did you aim for his shoulder?”

“Yes,” Kíli admits. He looks half-wild. “I didn’t want to kill anyone.”

“Next time, make it a kill shot,” Thorin advises. “Not all enemies will run at the first prick of an arrow, lad.”

Kíli nods jerkily, and then they must move again. They pick up everything of use and move on, a small group in a very big land, and Bofur keeps close to Kíli as best he can while they move at speed. He is quiet at first, and when he starts talking, it seems he may never stop again. By the time they stop for the evening, Bofur suspects he has heard Kíli's thoughts on just about every philosophical question that has ever occurred to the lad. Kíli is asleep before dinner that night, and Thorin plants himself immovably next to the lad. 

Bofur lets him be the next morning, until Kíli wanders back to him on the road, seemingly happy to pick up their conversation where he left off. Bofur lets him talk a bit, and then nudges him with a crooked grin.

“And what’s your brother have to say about you playing the hero, then? I suppose he’s proud enough to burst!”

Kíli stops dead and looks at him, face going a bit pale in surprise. “I didn’t tell him!”

“You forgot to mention such a thing?” Bofur is honestly surprised. “Too busy with the pleasantries and local gossip? Or were you not ready to talk about it yet?”

“I haven’t spoken to him,” Kíli says. He blinks, and blinks again. “I forgot.”

It has been four months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I ever write something purely happy, you must all have me taken to have my head examined. Hope you are enjoying, my darling ducks!


	4. Seven

Seven

Balin has his work cut out for him, keeping Fíli anything like sane. He distracts the lad with official duties and difficult problems, asking him again and again to help solve a dispute between two parties. Fíli needs the distraction, and he needs to feel needed. There is also the concern that the rest of the community see him being active and decisive. They will keep quiet all of their suspicions that something untoward may have happened to their party, until proof arrives in one form or another. If Thorin is no more, Fíli must be able to step into his role. It is deeply unfair. So is everything, since the dragon.

Fíli is in turns despondent and furious, and Balin does his best to play to his moods. He draws him out in his dark moods, reminding Fíli that he is still part of the community, that there are still responsibilities he must live up to. When the lad is fit for nothing but screaming at the sky or beating his knuckles bloody, Balin takes his staff in hand and lets Fíli strike at him, working his pain and rage out through blood and sweat and tears. Balin will teach him, later, when he is safe, how to use the heat and hard work of the forge to shape his grief and rage into something new and productive. He has watched Thorin at it for years, turning his pain into swords and axes, giving shape to his loss. 

Dis is Fíli's comfort, the rock on which he founds himself, and so Balin is free to push him and prod him, to keep him fighting and thinking and living. Fíli hates him for it some days, but Balin can bear that weight. He grieves no less, but he has more practice of it. The lad - but no. That is unfair. Fíli is an adult, now, in a sudden and terrible way that Balin would erase in a heartbeat if he could. Every complaint he has ever registered about Fíli's carelessness or lack of commitment to adult responsibilities is a reproach to him now. Fíli should have had the time to grow into his responsibilities gradually. But Balin knows that “should” is a word for the innocent. 

Two months since Fíli has shared a thought with his brother, Balin hauls him out of his little home and pushes him gently along, moving him so carefully that Fíli is mostly unaware of the manipulation. He steers him toward the old records-room, which he would be willing to wager a tidy sum of money that Fíli has never considered entering on his own.

“Time you took an interest in the contracts, my lad,” he says cheerfully. The look Fíli shoots him would wither a lesser Dwarf, but Balin has half-raised Thorin and Dwalin, and he brushes it off with a smile. “I trust you’ve kept up on your studies?”

“I trust you are joking,” Fíli shoots back, and there is acid in it. Balin breathes deeply and moves on. 

“These are trying times for us all, and you not the least, but we still must do our part. Now, just sit yourself down here and I’ll fetch the lenses. We’ll see what you can learn about the varieties of signatures that can be affixed, shall we?”

Balin wanders off to the storage area, poking through the slightly-dusty copies of significant historical contracts to find some relevant examples and the high-magnification lenses needed to fully examine the runes that have been so carefully placed on each. It is a good thing they are merely copies and not the originals, because Balin mangles half of them with a sudden violent clenching of his hands when Fíli's scream tears through the silent room.

“Fíli! Lad, what’s the matter!” He is at Fíli's side in a moment, unsure what to do with his hands. Fíli has buried his head on the table as if he would burrow into the solid stone, and his hands are clenched in fists by his temples, sturdy fingers going white with the pressure he is applying. The scream stops as quickly as it came, but Fíli's breathing is harsh and laboured, more akin to sobbing than to normal breaths. “Shall I fetch Oin?”

“No,” Fíli breathes, voice as raw as Balin has ever heard it, and he stifles a sob of what sounds like pain. “I don’t know what’s wrong. My back - aah!” He gasps in pain as he tries to turn his head to look at his own back, and Balin puts a ginger hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t move. Let me take a look.” He pulls carefully on the layers of fabric that cover the lad’s body, hauling up tunic and undershirt to lay almost comically over Fíli's golden head, exposing his back to the dim light of the records-room. 

There is no blood, despite the harsh breathing that makes it sound as though Fíli is scarcely keeping body and soul together from pain. There is something wrong, though, and Balin puts his fingers out gingerly to brush the surface of the skin.

Three parallel lines run across Fíli's back from the right shoulder nearly down to the left hip. If Balin did not know better, he would have supposed them to be made by an animal of some sort - a wild Warg, perhaps. They are not raised or hot to the touch, but Fíli flinches away from the merest touch of Balin’s fingers. 

“What’s wrong?” Fíli asks, trying to sit upright, and gasping in a sharp breath of pain in response. “What’s happened? I feel like I’ve been half torn to shreds.”

“It almost looks it,” Balin says slowly, but his mind is racing. There is no logical explanation for the phenomenon, unless he draws on folk tales. Then again, most of his life has been built on tales handed down from one generation to the next, and it has done him no harm yet. “Breathe deep, lad, and try to push it away. This pain is not yours to bear.”

“Whose, then?” Fíli asks with a groan. “Is it a curse?”

Balin sinks down on the chair next to him, putting a hand on the lad’s still-clenched fist, and tries not to let tears built too obviously in his traitorous old eyes. “No indeed. I think it may be a blessing - though maybe not as much as I might hope, from the looks of those marks.”

“Not exactly the time for riddles, I’m afraid.”

“There are stories of this sort of thing happening,” Balin says thoughtfully. “I’d have to ask Oin about the details. He always has had a good memory for these sorts of things.” Fíli's look of incredulity is enough to bring Balin to his senses, and he refocuses. “In soul-links, lad.”

The idea of it takes a while to sink in, but Balin sees the instant it catches fire in Fíli's mind, and he sits bolt-upright, despite the pain. “Kíli! You’re saying Kíli's still alive?”

“I think so, my boy,” Balin says joyfully, and bears the pain without complaint as Fíli grips his hand with unconscious strength. “There is no other reason I can see clearly.”

“Alive!” Fíli says, and laughs at that - a rich, deep bark of joy that flows over the whole room. Balin has not seen him so much as smile in weeks. “Thank the maker! I’ll take being flayed alive any day to know that Kíli's all right! And if he’s still alive, then maybe the rest of them are as well!” He jumps up, hauling Balin with him, and heads for the door. “I have to tell Mum right away!”

“Hold fast a moment, there,” Balin objects. He hates to put the damper on such flames of delight, but it will come to Fíli soon enough without his warning. He is better off prepared. “You cannot see the marks, but they are an unlovely display. If these are Kíli's injuries, made manifest on your skin, we need to face the possibility that he is severely injured.”

Fíli goes pale, all happiness disappearing in an instant, and he puts a hand out to steady himself against the lintel of the door. “You can’t think-”

“I don’t think anything, yet. Give it a while, see what else you can feel. This means the link is merely disrupted, not gone for good!”

“Can we get it back?” He is solemn and adult in a way that Balin wants to hate, but finds he approves of very much in the moment. “If only I could speak to him! I need to know what’s happening to my brother!”

“Reforging a link, once it has broken, is nearly impossible,” Balin tells him with deep regret. “But there is enough here to give me hope that you will know the most important things.”

“You mean I’ll feel it if he dies?” Fíli asks. Balin just bows his head, and prays with all he has that it will not come to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're starting to come to a place where it's a good idea to pay attention to the numbering of chapters, if you want to attempt to piece things together as we go! Thank you so very much for reading!


	5. Three

Three

 

Dwalin resents change. Most of the time. In his life, most things that come with change have been ruinous. Change left them homeless and dispossessed. Change brought death and despair to those who survived the dragonfire. It has done him little good over time, and he eyes it with deep suspicion. 

This is one more change that Dwalin resents. 

“What do you mean, he must come?” he hisses at Thorin as their heads are bent together over the packs. They are taking the heaviest items from Fíli's pack and redistributing them among the rest of their small company - an increased burden none of them need. Like the lad in question. “Can we not wait for Fíli to be fit again?”

“You know we cannot.” Thorin will not meet his eyes, and Dwalin knows his closest friend fears revealing that he shares the same doubts about the youngling who now paces nervously a few meters down the road. “If we are ever to retake Erebor, we will need Dain on our side. He will not look kindly on us missing the gathering, nor will any of the leaders who attend.”

“So let us go alone,” Dwalin tries. He keeps his voice as low as possible. “The boy will only slow us down and endanger our success. We have been out of touch with home before, and for longer journeys than this.”

“Not in times like this,” Thorin snaps. He shoves a few more daggers into his own pack, raising a tired eyebrow at the packing skills Fíli has displayed. Mostly knives, Dwalin notes, and gives an approving nod. “How are we to negotiate trade exchanges without Balin’s wits? You and I are skilled in many things, old friend, but I will not jeopardise our relations with the Iron Hills through our lack of diplomatic experience.”

Dwalin has no argument to that point. It is true that Balin should be with them to oversee the contracts and legal wording, but he is growing too tired for such journeys every few years, and he is needed at home as well. If only they had not lost the soul-link - 

It is a useless thought. 

“He must be fit for the journey on his own,” he warns Thorin, folding his arms across his chest. “We will do him no favors by coddling him.”

“Dis and Fíli disagree. They think him too young, and I cannot argue it,” Thorin answers heavily. “What have we come to, that we bear our children into our battles before they are fit to defend themselves?”

“Frerin was no older when he fought by your side,” Dwalin reminds him, and Thorin turns away sharply, standing to hoist the pack onto his shoulders with a grunt.

“And where is Frerin now?” Thorin’s voice is ice. He swings up the now much lighter pack and carries it over to his nephew, where he demonstrates the proper adjustment of the straps to make it fit Kíli's narrow frame. 

Dwalin makes no effort to hide his wariness of the arrangements as they begin the journey. It is no personal dislike of the lad that makes him unhappy. To the contrary, he has always quite liked Dis’ sons, and played with them often as babes, particularly in the years after their father was lost. They were a credit to his memory, and to their mother. One day, he was certain, Thorin’s nephews would be skilled warriors. They are not now, and Kíli far less than his brother.

Kíli is not a good travel companion to Dwalin’s way of thinking. He does his bit where he can, but the lad has been sheltered his entire life, and knows nothing of the wild world. Kíli keeps the lines of communication open, and Dwalin is grateful that he can exchange words with Balin through him, but he wishes that they had another set of eyes and arms with them. Kíli has the energy of the young, but none of the wisdom of experience. He has the willingness to learn, though he must be pushed out of his comfort zone at every turn. He is driving Dwalin mad. 

For one thing, he talks incessantly - and of little but his brother, unless he is directed into another subject. They hear Fíli's thoughts on every sight they see, every person they encounter, and every minor detail of happenings at home. Kíli tells them what Fíli thinks of their cooking and what paths they should take. It takes Dwalin a few days to realise they never hear what Kíli himself thinks of any of it. 

But that is not the worst of it. 

Three weeks into the journey, Dwalin twists a fist into the fabric of Thorin’s tunic and drags him off the path without a word, drawing them both into the depths of the sparse forest until he is sure the others cannot hear them. 

“I would not wish to cause offense by murdering your nephew,” he begins without hesitation. 

“I would prefer you did not.” Thorin’s eyes narrow in confusion. “Why should you?”

“He hums,” Dwalin growls. A muscle twitches involuntarily in one cheek. “Constantly. Through all of his watches at night.”

Everyone who has traveled with Dwalin knows how lightly he sleeps, and all his previous companions have learned quickly to step lightly around him, and to keep their voices to a hushed murmur. Kíli wanders the perimeter of the camp, stepping on what sounds like every twig he can find, and never ceases the interminable humming. The hours of the lad’s watch have quickly become the bane of Dwalin’s existence. 

Thorin gives a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Ask me anything else, and I will happily work to see it done. But you cannot ask me to make him stop this.”

“He will drive us all to madness!”

Thorin’s hand on his shoulder is both amusement and a strange sort of comfort. “Do you know that you used to crack your knuckles without ceasing? Minutes or hours at a time, you would not stop.”

“I did not!” He is indignant. He would have known if he were doing such a thing.

“You did. And Balin would weave braids in his beard over and over, until parts of it were near to falling out with the stress.” Dwalin did not remember that, either. “We all had our ticks in the soul-link. Kíli's is the humming.”

That makes a sudden, terrible amount of sense. The lad is not merely nervous, or attempting to keep himself away at the expense of others’ sleep. He is talking to his brother, sharing every moment they can manage in the ever-increasing distance that separates them. 

“Well, then,” Dwalin says awkwardly after a moment. “I cannot fault the lad for that, I suppose.”

“A bit more patience, if you can find it in your heart, old friend,” Thorin says with a hint of amusement sparkling in his eyes. “He will be old and cynical like the rest of us in short enough measure. Let him have his link in full for as long as he can.”

Fíli and Kíli will keep their link only as long as they continue to forge it, Dwalin knows. He and Balin maintained their own soul-link far longer than most Dwarves, but only through persistent effort. He has not seen brothers as close as Fíli and Kíli since Thorin and Frerin were young lads - but that is no guarantee of the link. It is susceptible to more stresses than they will imagine in their youthful confidence, and it can be gradually torn apart, or broken in a single, sharp moment.  
“For the love of mithril, though, is there no way to keep him quiet at night?” Dwalin says with a groan. 

“I’ll move him to the first watch,” Thorin agrees easily. “It is far harder to wake you so early.” Dwalin nods his gratitude, and Thorin claps his shoulder and starts back toward the road. It is not a solution, but it will help.

Two weeks later, Dwalin is stumping down the road, eyes scanning both sides for any sign of danger. Thorin moves close, letting their shoulders knock together.

“Not so bothered by my nephew now, I see?”

With sudden surprise, Dwalin realises that Kíli is humming as he walks, eyes absent in the way that he now knows is an indication that the lad is linked to his brother. The hum is the same as ever it was - but now it is not grating at his nerves. He shakes his head, ignoring Thorin’s attempt to rile him. 

“I can adjust,” Dwalin rumbles. “Besides, it is not so constant now.”

“No,” Thorin mutters. He shakes his head. “They are too young.”

“So were we,” Dwalin answers, and keeps his voice gentle. They walk on, as Kíli blinks and comes back to them, pointing ahead and telling them what he sees, and what Fíli thinks it might be. Things change, and they bear their children off to war, and the old must adapt as they can.


	6. Eight

It’s been eighty-seven days. 

Kíli keeps count, with tiny notches along the length of his bow. They would look like nothing but surface-level scratches to anyone else, but he marks them carefully each night, when he has given up hope for the day. He reaches out over and over again, feeling for the warm, reassuring presence that has always answered every time he calls, and there is nothing there. Sometimes he fancies he can feel the jagged, broken edges of the link that once bound him to his brother. He avoids those, most of the time, for fear they will cut him. He hurts enough already. 

It’s been eighty-seven days, and every one of them has been a frantic dash homeward. The moment the link broke, he felt it. One moment Fíli was there, bright and certain as always. Kíli doesn’t know the technical Khuzdul terms the older Dwarves use to describe the link yet, but he would say that it had always felt like gold - solid, yet malleable - and Fíli had been fire on the other end, making it burn and glow all the way into the depths of his soul. The link is cold and dead, now, and there is no warmth. 

Thorin says he should not despair of Fíli and the others. Thorin also begged Dain for ponies and threw their things haphazardly over their backs the moment Kíli ran to him, too shattered to speak of what he had just lost. Thorin also pushes them day and night, hardly allowing time for sleep. The journey that had taken six months to make on the way out is taking less than three for the return. Kíli thinks, sometimes, when it is darkest and coldest, that Thorin is as certain as the rest of them that they are going home to nothing but tragedy. 

Sixty days into the return, they had been attacked by Wargs. It was Kíli's own fault he had been injured, and he owns that error. He was riding at the end of their small company, and let his attention wander as he struggled uselessly to find some way of making the link connect again. Even to find a hint of Fíli somewhere would have been enough. The Warg that had leapt on him had thrown him from his pony, raking huge gouges across his back with cruel claws. He would have been dead in an instant without Dwalin’s furious reaction, tearing the beast away from him faster than Kíli could even follow. Thorin and Bofur had fought like wild things themselves, and Kíli's injuries were the only ones worth mentioning. Thorin had insisted they wait long enough to be certain his wounds were treated properly, and hovered over him anxiously for the next few days.

A bitter part of him insists he is worth more to Thorin now. An even worse part is almost glad of it - glad that he is now the first in his uncle’s thought, rather than a distant and sometimes unwanted second. 

They are a quieter company, now, and their journey is darker and more contemplative now. The songs and easy chatter of the first leg of the journey is gone, and Kíli is left alone with his thoughts far too often. 

He regrets a great deal. There were so many moments he had wasted, caught up in the excitement of the journey or the thrill of being treated like a proper adult by the Dwarves he had admired for so long. How many times had he forgotten to share a sight with Fíli, or to relay something that would make his brother laugh? Fíli's disappointment at being left behind like a bit of luggage had soured their link, making it uncomfortable and alien, at times, but Kíli had allowed himself to be distracted and fall away. He had wasted so many chances to be with his brother, and now he had nothing but dark, broken silence to greet him when he reached out. It was like losing part of himself. It would have been easier to lose his eyes, or his hands. It would have been easier to lose his heart. 

It has been eighty-seven days, and now they are almost home. They ride faster than ever, now - as fast as the still-healing wounds on Kíli's back will allow - and he watches familiar landmarks come into view with a mixture of excitement and terror. They would be home soon, and then all the wondering would be over. 

He doesn’t think the others understand what it will do to him if they find Fíli is truly gone. He hopes they do not.

They are only an hour or so out when they start to see it on the horizon - thick, black smoke, twisting into the air in thin ropes that dissipate high above them. Something is burning. Not the clean fires of wood and coal that heat their forges - this is foul, choking stuff, and he is hesitant to guess at the source. The others tense up just as fast as Kíli does, and it makes his heart beat even faster, feeling like it is lodged in his throat. He reaches out blindly for Fíli, projecting his nervousness and fear, looking for the steady assurance that everything will be fine. 

But Fíli is gone, as he always is now, and Kíli is alone. 

Thorin urges his pony to a faster clip, and the others follow. Their silence is wariness now, watchful and tense, and Kíli urges his pony closer to Thorin’s. There is little to be said. 

It’s clear quickly enough. Their settlement is surrounded, and it has been for a while. The caves where they have made their homes are shallow things, nestled in the sides of hills that do not even deserve the name of mountains, and they offer little in the way of natural defenses. The Dwarves fortified a line of hand-delved trenches half a mile or so from the entrances to the caves, and along that line, a war had been taking place. The near side was crawling with dark figures, and Kíli hears Thorin and Dwalin suck in deep, shocked breaths. 

“Raiders,” Bofur hisses. They all drop down low in their seats, hunching over the backs of the ponies to peer ahead of them. “Had their eye on us for a while, haven’t they?”

“I did not think they would dare to attack so openly,” Thorin growls. His hands grip his reigns so tightly that Kíli is certain they must hurt. “How can we be trapped so thoroughly by such scum?”

Dwalin stares ahead, counting and thinking so hard it can almost be felt. “If we attack the middle of the line, we can divide them. You cut through to the left, I’ll take the right.”

But Bofur shakes his head frantically. “There’s too many of them! Four of us will do no more than provide them with some amusement. We need a better plan!”

Kíli sits up straight for a moment, chancing being spotted, and then ducks down again. “I can get through.”

“What nonsense are you speaking?” Dwalin asks shortly, still staring straight ahead.

“There’s a way they won’t know to guard. Fíli and I played in these forests all the time when we were small, and we knew all the secret paths.” He gives a little smile at the thought, and it hurts. He hasn’t smiled in eighty-seven days. “I can make it into the caves without being seen, I swear to you.”

Thorin and Dwalin stare at one another, almost as though they have a soul-link of their own, and then Thorin nods reluctantly.

“Straight there and back,” he murmurs, drawing Kíli close with a hand on his pony’s reigns. “We need to know how many are alive inside, how they are situated for provisions and weaponry, and anything you can find about the enemy’s numbers.”

Kíli nods and slips off his pony, slinging his bow and quiver on his back and tucking several of Fíli's knives quickly about his person. Bofur leaps down beside him and puts warm hands on his shoulders, encouraging Kíli to look at him.

“Will you be able to do this, lad?” Bofur’s voice is little more than a whisper. “You’ll find your answers in there, one way or another. Will you hold together for us, no matter what you find?”

Kíli nods, but he has no words to offer assurances. His throat is thick, and his eyes burn, but he will not shed any tears over his brother until he knows for certain there is reason for mourning. He can do the job.

They let him slip away, and Kíli does not look back. He has wasted too many chances. He will never waste another. 

It’s not as easy a journey as it was when he and Fíli played their games, so many years ago. He had always been able to slip away faster than Fíli, to hide among the trees and find the narrow paths through wood and stone, and lead his brother a merry chase. Then, though, Fíli's presence had always been with him, unshakable, and Kíli had not been alone. 

He makes his way past the raiders with great care, following the path they had found, and only stopping to catch his breath or to rest for a moment. The burning pain across his back reminds him of his last mistake, and he keeps his eyes open at all times, watching for dangers. When he is closest to the line of raiders who have besieged his home, Kíli scrambles up the sturdiest tree he can find, looking for a vantage point where he can see their whole line, and ignores the small cuts and scrapes his hands take from the climb.

There are dozens of them - stocky, well-armed Men who have settled in along the line. They have made themselves comfortable, he sees, with makeshift tents and fires all around, which cough out the thick smoke that had warned their party of the danger. Kíli counts, then counts again. There is no way the four members of their party will be able to take them all on. He slumps back against the tree trunk, then tries not to cry out as the wounds on his back flare up in sharp reminder of his injury. 

He breathes hard for a moment until the worst of the pain is past, then peers down carefully from his perch. The rest of his path looks clear, all the way into the nearly invisible crevice that will let him creep into the caves themselves. Kíli sighs and begins to climb down again, ignoring the way his heart begins to pound and the shakiness of his hands. He will be home soon, and then there can be no more hope or denial or hiding from the truth. 

The outside of his right arm, just above his wrist, stings sharply, then begins to burn, and Kíli nearly looses his grip and tumbles from the tree. He jams his feet into a sharp angle where a sturdy branch meets the trunk and claps his left hand to the spot, fighting the urge to cry out. There is nothing on the tree which could have caused such pain. He braces himself against the tree and yanks his sleeve up to expose the spot.

There, in bright red lines, like a wound freshly made, sits a rune. The lines are a bit unsteady, but clear as day. 

TRAP.

Kíli claps a hand across his mouth, eyes so wide they hurt. 

When they were children, they learned to read and write in Westron. Khuzdul was taught slowly and carefully as they grew, and Fíli and Kíli learned it together, memorising the words and runes by throwing them back and forth across the soul-link. They never told their elders that they put their own spin on some of the words, combining Westron and Khuzdul in ways that would have been the highest offense. They took what they needed to form their own private language, words and runes that only they knew, and they did not mind what anyone else would think. 

The rune burning sharply into his arm is not a Westron word, nor any Khuzdul term. It is one of the runes that only he and Fíli know, and Kíli has not carved it into his own arm.

Fíli is alive, somewhere in the besieged settlement just ahead of him - alive, and functional enough to send him a message warning him of the danger he faces. 

Kíli tips his head back against the tree, staring up into the sky with eyes that prickle and burn with tears of sheer relief. It takes a long moment before the wild rush of joy flowing through his veins will allow him to think properly again, and then he snatches up the smallest blade he has carried with him, poising it above skin. There are a hundred thousand words he would like to say, and he cannot think of one of them. 

HELP HOW?

It is one rune, four tiny lines scratched into the skin next to Fíli's rune, like the eighty-seven tiny scratches on his bow. They itch and sting, but it is a welcome sensation. The jagged, broken edges of the link seem a little smoother, a bit less sharp and dangerous now than they did before. 

DON’T COME. A tiny negation to a simple rune, but Kíli can almost feel the desperation in it. Fíli is trying to keep him safe. 

He thinks for a long moment, then puts the knife away, still within easy reach. He should go back to Thorin, let him know the enemy position, and that he’s made contact with his brother. He should tell the others what he has learned, and let wiser, older heads than his make the decision. Before he left home, he never would even have hesitated to defer to Thorin’s judgment, to wait and take the wise course of action. 

Kíli is not the same sheltered young Dwarf he was ten months before, when Thorin hustled him out of his home without a look backward. He slides to the ground easily, confident in his movements and ability to defend himself. Kíli has had eighty-seven days of regret for wasted moments, and certainty that he will never see his brother again, and anger with himself for his selfishness. He creeps along behind trees and small bushes, using ground cover effectively as he makes for the little gap that will take him home. He will never waste an opportunity again.

He scratches a little rune into the back of one hand as he moves, easy and free, and does not bother to hide his grin. 

COMING HOME.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, loves! I did intend to update every day and be finished today, as a tiny birthday mathom, but ill children and worse weather put a crimp in my plans. I should be able to finish this fairly quickly, though - a few more days, and all the pieces will be in play! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Sincerely, it has been one of the greatest joys of my life to be able to share my stories with you and find common ground, and to come to know you lovely people. I am truly grateful to you for giving me parts of your time, and a space to be with you. All my very best to you!


	7. Five

Seven months ago, before Kíli left, Fíli had loved his brother.

He still loves Kíli now, of course, but things are very different. They speak almost every day, and the soul-link between them is still strong and sure, a concrete proof of their love. But Fíli is not sure he knows who Kíli is anymore. 

Before he left, Kíli was the little brother who doted on him. Since the time he could walk, Kíli had followed Fíli around adoringly, doing whatever Fíli proposed. They had been equal partners in mischief, making trouble wherever they could, but Fíli had been the leader. He was the older brother. It was his job to go first. 

For seven months, now, Kíli has been going first. 

He sends Fíli everything - every wonderful new sight and sound and taste and smell, every feeling of excitement or wild terror, every face and voice he meets along the way. Kíli wants him to share it all as if he is there, and Fíli knows he would be doing the same in Kíli's place. His dreams at night are all Kíli's experiences, and sometimes he does not taste his own food properly for the strength of what Kíli shares with him from the road. 

It is driving him mad.

Fíli's life at home is tragically dull in comparison. Mama tries her best to keep him busy with lessons at the forge, but Fíli is a danger to himself when his concentration is with his brother. He pushes Kíli away a bit, then, shoving some of his frustration and envy back through the link, and Kíli steps back a little. Balin wraps him in layer after layer of stifling responsibility, piling him high with duties and tiny diplomatic missions within their own community. He never gets to go anywhere or do anything exciting, but he is expected to learn and practice his responsibilities continually. Kíli sends him fresh air and unfamiliar vistas, and all Fíli has to send back is the local gossip and family news. Kíli gets further and further away, out of his reach now, and he is not the little brother who has followed him, all admiration. Fíli must sit in his shadow and try not to let the hurt show. 

It is almost a relief when Kíli starts to draw away, to hold back some of his experiences. They talk every evening, and then every other evening, and in between, Fíli can just be Fíli He finds a place for himself where he is only himself, with no brilliant, dark shadow, and there is satisfaction in that. The Dwarves of their community begin to look up to him in Thorin’s absence, to come to him for advice or decisions on matters of difficulty between themselves. Fíli grows an inch, and then another, and his mother’s fond looks of pride grow more frequent than her silent, sad spells of staring out the window after her other son. 

When the company reaches the Iron Hills, six months since leaving home, Fíli is relieved. Now that they are underground, among Dwarven-kind, there will not be so much for Kíli to exult over, or new sights to share. But Kíli realises this, and tries to make up for it by including Fíli in every conversation, pushing names and faces at him at the oddest times. Fíli has to suffer through forced introductions to all of the worthies of Dain’s court, and to listen to their polite conversation and small talk, and then to the interminable hours of political discourse. Thorin wants Dain with him on some great quest in a time to come, and Dain is clearly keen to avoid entangling alliances. Fíli must translate all of it into words for Balin, and then send Balin’s advice back to Kíli, who passes it along to Thorin, and the whole cycle starts again. 

Sometimes Fíli falls asleep from the tedium of it, and Balin shakes him by the shoulder, or Kíli sends a laughing pulse of light and energy along the link, startling him awake. 

He catches glimpses of Kíli through his own eyes, sometimes, when his brother walks in front of a polished surface, and Fíli is always startled. Kíli hasn’t grown as he has, but there is a strength and wildness about him now that was not there before in the sometimes-shy little brother he has looked after. Kíli does not need his protection anymore, it seems. He is dressed well, almost like a member of the court, but in Thorin’s colours, and Fíli knows that he stands in their eyes as Thorin’s substitute when his uncle is busy. 

They are so very impressed with his little brother, these fine Dwarves, and it sticks in Fíli's throat like dry bread. They are not impressed by his cleverness, or the sly brilliance of his jokes, or the kindness of his heart. They are fascinated by the fact that Thorin has brought such a young kinsman over such distances - and, Fíli works out quickly enough, they are bewildered and astounded by the soul-link.

“Not that they don’t have them here,” Kíli tells him lazily one night. It’s not the same as talking quietly from their beds; Kíli's has sat cold and empty for six months, and Fíli is still not used to the silence of the room. “But their soul-links don’t seem as strong. They fade with age much faster than ours, and are useless over distances.”

“Dwalin must love that,” Fíli muses, amused by the picture Kíli immediately sends of Dwalin’s face, oddly smug in a remembered moment.

Kíli yawns, and Fíli can feel the tiredness flowing off him in waves. They keep them busy running about, there in the Iron Hills - busy, and useful, and watched with admiration. Kíli has everything Fíli has ever wanted - and the worst of it is, he knows Kíli doesn’t want it. There is a hurt core of homesickness in every feeling he sends, an overtone of lonely melancholy on every visual and sound. Kíli wants to be home. He didn’t want to leave in the first place. Fíli feels even worse for being so jealous, but he cannot seem to stem that tide. 

The worst bit about the soul-link, he thinks sadly, is that it is so hard to hide anything from his brother. 

They seem to stay in Dain’s halls for months, though Fíli knows it has been but a few weeks, and the Dwarves there grow more familiar with their company all the time. As they finally prepare to leave, Dain throws a great banquet for them - rich and splendid, but Fíli knows it will not be enough to stem Thorin’s anger at the way Dain has maneuvered himself out of making any commitments to his cause. Kíli is fairly pulsing with nervous excitement, and Fíli is tired of catching glimpses of his brother’s finery every time he blinks. He is locked in a virtual dungeon of dusty papers, or so it feels. Balin has set him to studying ancient texts that he cannot even pretend interest in, and Kíli's nerves serve as a vivid distraction. 

“It’s time!” Kíli tells him nervously, pushing images and feelings at him far too fast, and Fíli rocks back a little. He knows Kíli will send everything at him, whether he has work to do or not, and he tries to send some assurance back. He doesn’t feel it, though; his heartbeat is a little too fast, agitated by his own frustration with the situation. 

The festivities begin, and Fíli instinctively tries to cover his ears at the riot of sound and light that are suddenly upon him. They conflict with what his own sense are telling him - dusty and dry and cool and dull - and he tries to shake a bit loose, to step away from the immediacy of the soul-link the way Kíli can. 

“Look!” Kíli says, all bright, terrified excitement in his head. “Dain and his advisers!” Flashes of image come at him, and Fíli grits his teeth and sends back images and smells of his surroundings. 

“Busy here,” he tells Kíli coolly. “Some of us have work to do.”

“Ahh, young fellow!” One of Dain’s advisers greets Kíli warmly, and Fíli can almost feel the clap of a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Fine evening, isn’t it?”

Kíli stutters agreement, and Fíli smirks a little. If there is one thing to be said for Balin’s relentless push to make him ready to lead, it is that he has learnt self-assurance. He would know what to say to these Dwarves, where Kíli flounders. 

“It has been a honour to spend time with you these past weeks,” another Dwarf says, and Fíli is not certain whether it is Dain himself. “We have profited a great deal by your remarkable skills, young Dwarf.”

Fíli's hand tightens on a pen until his knuckles are sore.

“Indeed!” A third finely-dressed Dwarf has joined them, and they are all beaming pride and approval at Kíli Fíli will never see such admiration from them, even if he should go to the Iron Hills tomorrow. He will always be second to his little brother, now. “We are all much relieved to see what strength and heart remains in the line of the King. Thorin need fear little with such an heir!”

An heir.

Kíli's nervous pride stutters a bit, and Fíli blocks it with a quick, furious blink. He can feel his face heating up, his eyes narrowing at the unseen papers in front of him.

Kíli has taken everything, whether he meant to or not. The journey itself, Thorin’s regard, Fíli's opportunity to shine - and now even what little claim he has to the throne, buried beneath dragon-desolation though it may be. Now all of Dain’s people know Kíli as the golden child, the special and talented and exciting young heir to Thorin himself, and Fíli is left to scratch away at ancient parchments in the dust of a forgotten storage room. 

The rage boils up in his throat, bitterly hot and ice cold at once, and he doesn’t hold back. A flash of all that anger slams across the link, and Fíli can hear Kíli react.

“What’s wrong?” Kíli demands, suddenly panicked. He has no context for that flash of emotional pain, and Fíli's eyes narrow. Kíli does not even know what he has done, and Fíli is left to stew in his own anger. He growls a little, sweeping the books and papers from the table with a rough slam of his arm. It is not fair, and it is not right, and he cannot keep watching the party dance attendance on Kíli “Fíli?” Kíli demands - demands, demands, demands, seeking reassurance and explanation and everything that Fíli cannot give just now, not when he wants to pour all his rage across the soul-link onto his brother’s head. That would be cruel.

“What’s wrong, lad?” The words are Bofur’s, across the distance, as he comes rushing to Kíli's side. They will come to Kíli's aid, and Fíli will still be forgotten. 

The anger flares again, hot and cutting, and Fíli cannot control it. He will not listen to another moment of this. 

He takes the anger like a sword, swinging it at the soul-link that has always connected them. Without a word, he severs the link, slamming the connection shut - and he is alone in his anger. The annoying hiss of distant music and flicker of impossible lights is gone. He feels the end of the link slip away, as though snapping back toward Kíli, and a vengeful part of him hopes that his brother will feel the break.

He will reconnect it in the morning, when he can breathe calmly again - when he can breathe without wanting to scream at his brother for being the unwilling agent of Fíli's destruction. He will apologise to Kíli then, if he can manage it, and they can find a way to begin again. They will leave early in the morning, and be on the road, in danger again, within hours, and then the link will have to be restored. Kíli will be coming home soon, and in half a year, they will be together again, and he will have to learn who his brother is now and whether they still love one another. He sits down in the dust, slowly beginning to gather up the papers he has scattered, to clean up the mess he has made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this would be the moment from which all the others shatter.


	8. Nine

Fíli paces in circles around the small storage area, knife clutched firmly in one hand. His home has been invaded, his people divided and imprisoned in their own homes, and he has no idea what is happening outside their caves. The raiders came upon them so suddenly, and they were not prepared. They have held them back at the lines of fortification for as long as they could, but six hours earlier, a few of the biggest and cruelest of them had made their way into the caverns of the Dwarves. They came in with swords in hand, and made for the women (those they could recognise as such, at least) and the children, and held swords to the throats of their most vulnerable people.

Balin had been at his side, keeping him calm and whispering advice, and Fíli can at least say that he bore himself well in that moment. He had kept his head high and shown them no more respect than they deserved - but he had not followed his own instincts and savaged them all, either. The raiders had hit them at just the right time, when the most able-bodied among them were away in the mines or on trading expeditions, and Fíli meant to go over everything in detail once the situation was dealt with. They had a traitor in their midst, most likely, and he would have to find them out without delay.

Balin had helped him slip away in the chaos as the raiders divided them, shoving a few Dwarves into each small cave and guarding the entrances to be sure they could not communicate. They were waiting for something, that was clear. The Dwarves had nothing worth stealing now.

“They are looking for your uncle,” Balin had hissed at him, pushing him on with unusual force. “I think they’d settle for you if they work out you are his kin. You hide yourself here, lad, and I’ll be back in a while. We’ll figure this out, you’ll see.”

Fíli had slipped into the storage area deep within the cave system, grabbing what small weapons he could along the way, and closing the door behind himself. There is fresh air here, at least, and he sinks to the ground beside the crack in the wall that leads to the outside world. He cannot fit through it any longer - no more than an arm or so - but it is proof that the world still exists beyond the sudden suffocating terror of the caves that have become their prison. It is astounding to look at it and realise that once, he and Kíli had darted through the small space with ease.

Once, everything had been easy for them.

Shifting his grip on the knife in his hand, Fíli stares down at his arm, at the tiny line of symbols scratched into his skin. Despite his situation, he cannot help but grin stupidly at them, because they are the epitome of everything he has hoped for.

Kíli is coming home. He must be close, and Fíli knows his brother has seen their trapped state, and that he understands they are in danger - and Kíli is coming home anyway. It is reckless and stupid and every kind of bad idea he can imagine, and he wants to scream for joy.

A stinging pain in his arm brings him back to harsh reality, and he squints at it in the dim light.

COMING IN. WHERE?

He misses their soul-link with a sharp and terrible pain, for a moment. If Kíli and Thorin and the rest are in danger because he could not offer a proper warning, it is his fault. He had thought it was a sign of certain doom, at first - that Kíli had slipped away from him in the night after he had slammed the link shut, and that he had missed all warnings that his brother was about to be lost to him forever.

The painful truth had been brought home to him in agonising stripes on his back - proof that Kíli was still alive, but also tangible proof that it had been Fíli's childish tantrum that had severed their soul-link. There is no knowing whether they can ever reforge the link that had been the life between them, or if it is lost to them forever. He has regretted it fiercely every day since, and welcomed every scratch or ache that served as continuing proof that his brother still drew breath.

He has still lost Kíli in some ways, and Fíli does not know how to handle it. They will have to make their way forward together, figuring out their relationship in this newly silent world. If they survive, that is.

The economy of their rune-language is a gift, now, and Fíli steadies the blade as he considers the best way to relay his location. He cannot draw Kíli a map - but there is an easier way.

APPLES.

They had hidden here as children, both delighting in stealing apples from the heavy wooden barrels that lined the walls. It was where they had discovered that they could not play hide-and-seek the way other children could - but that together, they were an unstoppable force against any game or attempt to keep them from their prize. Mama had despaired, in the end, and they had taken each sweet-tart bite as a victory. Kíli would know what he meant.

There is no answering scratch, and Fíli slumps back against the wall, trying to hear any sound of pursuit or danger from outside the little room that is nearly a prison to him, now. The raiders seem content to squat in their homes, eating what meagre provisions the Dwarves had stored away, and to hold them all as bait until Thorin returns. There must be something they want from him, more than simple thievery, and Fíli wrinkles his nose up as he thinks. The motivations of Men are a mystery.

The hand at his shoulder startles him so badly he jumps away. He does not scream. If Kíli says, later on, that he screams, it will be a terrible lie that brings nothing but shame to their family.

He whips around, staring wide-eyed at the crack that had been behind his back, and at the so-familiar hand that is now wrapped around the rock at one side, and at his own wrist brace on a so-familiar arm. Kíli has never once in his life surprised him before, because he always knew where he was. He had never expected to be startled by his brother. As it is, it is the most wonderful surprise of his life.

“Kíli!” His voice comes out as an embarrassing, cracked thing, soaring up in surprise. He throws himself at the wall, grabbing Kíli's hand so tight it hurts both of them. “Thank the Maker! You’re here! I thought you’d died!”

“No more than I thought you were gone,” Kíli says back. There’s a wildness to the way he says it - something of a laugh, but deeper and more painful beneath that, and Fíli knows what he’s feeling because he has lived it. Kíli's hand is tight around his, and Fíli cannot quite tell which of them is shaking. Perhaps it is both.

“I’m sorry, it was all my fault,” Fíli babbles. He presses his forehead to Kíli's hand, wishing the crack in the wall was wide enough to let him embrace his brother properly. “I shut down the link because I was angry, but I never thought-”

“Shut up,” Kíli whispers breathlessly, squeezing his hand tighter. “Shut up, we’re fine. We’ll be fine.”

Fíli gulps a laugh that might be a sob, and shakes his head. “We’re a bit far from fine, little brother.”

“We’re alive, and Thorin and Dwalin are here. How hard could it be?” Kíli tugs at his hand insistently until Fíli is forced to let it slide away - but then he has pressed his face up against the crack, and Fíli can see the glint of his eyes in the gloom. “Are you locked in? What’s going on in there?”

Fíli leans back, as close as he can get, and sighs heavily - but the weight of it all is less, now, because he does not have to carry it alone. He explains as best he can, angry again with himself that they have lost the link, that he cannot just shove it all at Kíli and let them sort it out together, effortless as breathing.

Kíli lets out a sharp little laugh when Fíli tells him that the raiders have taken Dis hostage, and he nods agreement. It almost feels like linking, this instant sharing of emotions, and he’ll take what he can get.

“So they are unwise, to say the least,” Kíli whispers, dark amusement in his voice. "I almost hope she doesn't kill them before we get to her." 

"One step at a time, " Fíli advises. " We need a plan. Many of our people are vulnerable,  and we cannot risk showing our hand too soon. "

“We don’t have time to waste on caution!” Kíli is almost humming with excitement, with barely repressed energy, and Fíli blinks in the gloom, startled. He hardly knows this brother of his, suddenly. “I can create a diversion. If it’s big and loud enough, Thorin and Dwalin will charge in, and we can wipe them out.”

“Are you mad?” Fíli slaps at the wall between them, half-wanting to shake Kíli “With swords to our throats? We’re answerable for all the lives in here, Kíli”

“Stealth, then,” Kíli agrees quickly. “I’ll take out the raiders along the perimeter, and you can deal with those inside.”

“You’re not listening!” He closes his eyes for a moment, desperation flowing through him like molten gold. If there is ever to be a moment where feeling and proximity would allow him to reopen the link, this must surely be it - because he feels he is about to break apart with the need to get it back. If he could still link, he could make Kíli understand the weight of responsibility that lies on him now, and the crushing terror that rushes over him at the thought of what Kíli is proposing. He cannot think of losing a single life that is in his care, and he cannot even breathe if he lets himself think about Kíli putting himself in harm’s way, again. 

He reaches out with his mind, as he has done without thought or effort since Kíli first came to him - but there is nothing but silence and emptiness, even as his brother is only a breath away. It is a bitter loss, just when he thought he could not feel such again.   
The link is lost, and he must find a way to accept that. The link is lost, and he cannot impress the seriousness of their situation on Kíli by that expedient. The link is lost, and they have only their limited resources to place between their people and certain death, and nothing will be the way it was before - but his brother is breathing only a hand’s-breadth away, and Fíli can face anything, now. 

Kíli huffs an impatient sigh, and slumps against his own wall. “Then what must we do?”

“Use our resources.” He’s thinking faster, now. “There are plenty of fighters in here, though we are scattered, and under guard.”

“We have a band of armed warriors that the bandits know nothing about,” Kíli shoots back. 

“Balin will be back any moment. We’re certain to be able to get a few weapons.”

“I can get past their lines without being seen, I’m sure of it!” Kíli is growing excited again, but in a more rational way. Fíli nods, thinking fast - and there is a life in this, a blooming delight as they begin to find a way to move together, even without the link. 

“It would need to be co-ordinated. If you and Thorin and the rest can attack at the mouth of the caverns just as we take out the guards-”

“We would need to knock out their reinforcements along the defenses,” Kíli murmurs. “How long would you need in here?”

It is a flurry of thought and ideas, back and forth in words that are clumsy and awkward, but they are all they have left. It will be enough. 

When they have a plan - a tentative, half-shapeless thing - Kíli pulls back enough to slip his hand through the crack again, looking for contact. 

“What chance do we really have?” Kíli asks, eyes darting nervously to Fíli's face and then away. “How can we coordinate this without the soul-link?”

“No use worrying after it now,” Fíli says quickly. He squeezes Kíli's hand, partly in reassurance, partly because he cannot go another second without a physical reminder that his brother is here with him, and not dead at all, not lost forever. “We’ll figure it out as we go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know, in my head, I was convinced I had updated this about three days ago? A week at most? SORRY, I AM THE WORST EVER! For some reason, this particular chapter has just been utterly impossible.
> 
> In apology, I shall give you the next chapter, too. One to go, and with any luck, you shall have it tomorrow, and I will be able to live with myself again. 
> 
> For those of you who have been reading, thank you SO much! You don't know how much it means to me.


	9. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, loves. In some ways, here is the heart of it all, and where it began. 
> 
> I shall have the tenth and last bit for you tomorrow, if all goes well, and hopefully it will all be worth while! I wonder, now that so many pieces are in place, whether the format I chose has made a difference in the reading of it? I think it's a different story if read straight through than pieced together like this, but I hope it's made sense in choosing to write and present it this way.

It is something they have always been able to do. From the time they were too small to talk, Dis watched them make one another laugh, or comfort a sudden fear, all without words. Fíli gets a far-away, lost look every time he is wrapped up in their shared thoughts; Kíli tends to hum strange old tunes out loud, never realising what he is doing. When she looks at them in those moments, minds wrapped around one another, half-lost to the world, all she can see is her brothers.

Thorin hasn’t whistled the ancient airs of Erebor since Frerin died. He lost more than half of himself that day, and he has lived alone in his head since then. It is enough to drive a man half-mad. 

She raises them carefully, trying not to make their bond any tighter than it already is. There are tales of Dwarves who have stopped speaking to others entirely, so wrapped up in their minds they have no use for the rest of the world. There are more, still, of Dwarves who take their lives if the connection is lost. Thorin lived in spite of his loss, as with all of his losses. So did she. Fíli and Kíli are not so hardened by grief and hardship. She knows they will not survive the loss of one another. She will have two sons, or she will have none. 

~~~~

Thorin does not ask their permission, nor does he soften the order with any assurances of safety. He is too much their king for that. 

“My business takes me to the Iron Hills,” he tells them over supper one evening. “We hear of dangers on the road, as well as of marauding bands that are causing trouble in the lands near our settlements here. I cannot go on such a lengthy and dangerous trip without some way of keeping contact here at home.”

“I thought Balin and Dwalin were keeping the soul-link open?” Dis asks sharply, raising a dangerous eyebrow at her brother. He does not look at her. 

“They maintained it for longer than most. Now it has failed, and there is no guarantee they will ever re-establish it.” He points his knife at Fíli, fixing him with a solemn gaze. “Nephew, I will need you to accompany me on the journey.”

“Of course!” Fíli's delight would fill the room, were he not struggling to keep in it check. “I know our soul-link is strong enough for the distance, Uncle. I will be honoured to travel with you!”

“You cannot know that they will be strong enough!” Dis hisses at her brother, eyes like stormclouds. “They have never been apart!”

“Frerin and I held the bond over such distances at half their ages,” Thorin says implacably. “Fíli and Kíli are closer than our brother and I ever were. They will hold.”

Kíli stares down at his platter, knife clenched tight in one hand. “How long will you be gone?” he asks, and does not look up. Dis stifles the urge to pat his hand or assure him he will survive the absence. She has waited at home too many times, and known too many losses from an impossible distance. 

“It is a long journey, and our dealings with our kin in the Iron Hills may take some time. It may be many months before we return.” Thorin is unmoving. He eats with such casual disinterest in the way his pronouncements will change their lives. 

“All that time!” Fíli says, eyes shining. “There is so much I can learn on the journey. You won’t even know me when I get back!” He reaches over to punch Kíli's arm, and Kíli does not move away. That is strange, Dis muses. Usually, her boys move together as if in a dance, one giving way when the other pushes forward. It lets them orbit one another tightly without ever interfering with the course of their respective paths. Kíli has missed a step, now, and it speaks to a minor break in their soul-link. She watches them carefully, and sees that Fíli is also surprised that he has made contact. 

“We leave in three days,” Thorin says, having missed the odd exchange. “Fíli, I would have you fully packed and ready to travel. Be sure you carry weaponry enough for any outcome, but do not overburden yourself.”

“Yes, Uncle.” It lacks his usual spirit. Fíli is not often sober and serious in this way, but he meets his uncle’s eyes evenly and steadily, like the grown Dwarf he will be some day. She thinks of his father, and cannot stop. 

“Kíli,” Thorin continues, and he lifts his head, surprised. “I am leaving Balin to look after you. He will help you to strengthen and maintain the link from your end.”

“I know how to link with Fíli,” Kíli says, more than a little offended. “I am no infant, Uncle!”

“I know, lad, and I do not doubt it. The link is too critical to be left to any chance, though. It will be our safety, and yours.” Thorin says. There is a softness in his voice that is not often heard, and he smiles kindly at Kíli He stands to take his leave, and Dis lets him go without a word. She will speak to him at length when there are no young ears around.

“Don’t be jealous, Kíli,” Fíli says as soon as he is gone, abandoning all pretense of composure to break into a brilliant smile, nearly dancing as he stands and moves about the room. “You wouldn’t like it anyway!”

“I’m not! I wouldn’t go if he asked!” Kíli's protest is at least half genuine. “I like it here.”

“But there’s so much to see and do beyond these walls!” Fíli argues, waving his arms grandly and stooping down to meet Kíli's eyes. “I will show you everything, I promise. Every strange sight, every new race! It will be like having you at my side the entire time.”

“I suppose you won’t miss lessons?” Kíli asks, mouth twisting in a wicked little grin as Fíli makes a dreadful face. Dis hides her own smile. 

“Never! I’ve had enough of dusty books and learning old languages for a lifetime!” Fíli flops backwards onto the table, grinning up at his brother. “I’ll leave that to you. When I’m king, you can advise me on all of that.”

“There’s no call to shirk your duties, my boy,” Dis says, forcing herself to sound firm. “Nor to lie in the eggs. Do get up and get to your tasks, then, or I’ll tell your uncle you’re not ready for the job!”

His eyes widen comically at that, and Fíli flings himself off the table and out the door, shedding little bits of egg as he goes. Kíli snickers, and she joins him, sitting down in the chair beside him with a sigh and a shake of her head. 

“That brother of yours,” she says fondly. “Oh, my boy. We’ll have the harder time of it, you know. It’s far easier to face danger than to wait and watch while others do.”

“I’d rather stay with you, anyway,” Kíli says easily, and she knows he means it. She has not meant to coddle him, but he is a bit more attached to home and hearth than some of the elder Dwarves think proper. Still, it is common enough at his young age. There will be time enough for him to grow adventurous in good time. 

She hears them talk together later, when they have gone to bed for the night. It was a long process, teaching them to voice their thoughts aloud when they are together, but it seems to have stuck. They whisper, but it is loud enough to creep through the cracks in the stone and reach her ears.

“You will be careful, won’t you?” Kíli asks anxiously. Fíli laughs.

“You sound like an old white-beard, Kíli! I’ll be as careful as I must, and no more.”

Kíli sighs heavily. “I wish we didn’t have to be apart for so long.”

Fíli sobers, and is quiet a long moment. “Me, too,” he murmurs. “Promise you’ll tell me everything from home?”

“Every day.”

“And you’ll watch with me when things are exciting?”

“Just so long as you don’t push them at me too hard!” Kíli agrees. “My head can only take so much at once!”

They are silent a long while, and then Fíli whispers again. “Kíli? You know we’re going to be just fine, don’t you? Nothing is going to change.”

“’Course not,” Kíli agrees sleepily. “How could it?”

“Couldn’t,” Fíli mutters. “Not for us.”

They drift off together, deep and steady breathing giving way to twin soft snores, and Dis closes her eyes and weaves a prayer into her cloth. They are too young for what is ahead, and Dis knows it. As long as they have one another, though, they will come through in the end. 

“Bind them together, oh Maker,” she prays, fingers flying through rough wool. “Make their link unbreakable as mithril, and carry them home together when they come to your Halls.”

She cannot see them apart.


	10. Ten

Thorin sends them away a fortnight before the rest are to gather, and tells them to make a journey of it. It will be good practice for them. If they are truly going to be allowed to go on the Quest for Erebor, to face and fight a dragon, they will need to know their strengths and weaknesses. Kili knows that Thorin thinks they are not prepared to travel together. His uncle is usually right - but this time, Kili thinks he is mistaken. 

They go to their mother together, to say their farewells in person. He hopes she will not change her mind now and try to keep him home. She worries after him as much now as ever she did when he was young. It matters not at all to her that he is the best shot within a hundred leagues, or that he has satisfied Dwalin in all of his training. He can fight and protect himself now, just as any other Dwarf might. 

“Excited?” Kili asks, grinning down at Fili - DOWN, by Mahal’s beard! He has grown even taller than his brother, who used to seem able to reach the stars themselves if he had only stretched far enough. Fili snorts. 

“Don’t you remember what Balin has told us a hundred times, little brother? There is no place for games on such a quest. We do not go for sport or pleasure. It is a serious matter.”

Kili laughs at that, throwing his head back. The sky is a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the sun shines warm upon their heads, and he and his brother are headed out on an adventure together. This time, they will share the sights and sounds in person, from beginning to glorious end. This time, they will not have to be torn apart. “Serious, indeed - but Fili, just you wait! Adventure, life on the road, a sword in your hand for a purpose - you’re going to love it!” He grabs his brother’s arm and squeezes it tight. Once, he would not have had to move a hand to convey the same sentiment - love and shared enthusiasm, with perhaps a hint of nerves. He could just have felt it, and opened the link wide, and let his brother share his soul.

It hurts, still, when he thinks about it, and his amusement dies away as his hand drops from Fili’s arm. They would have been so much more use to Thorin on this quest if they were still linked. Then again, if the link still worked, he would likely have been left behind to do the job that had driven Fili to such heights of jealousy and resentment that he had broken that precious link they shared. They are less effective now. Communication is hard when everything has to be shaped into words and gestures, only shared in person or through tedious, slow writing. Sometimes, he looks at his brother, and he has no idea what Fili is thinking or feeling - and that is still a blow, even after all the long and silent years. 

Their mother embraces them tight - too tight, until he thinks his ribs will snap - and presses a stone into his hand, bidding him to return to her. He tucks it away carefully. She thinks he is reckless now, ever since he returned from his journey with Thorin, and he does not dare tell her, nor anyone else, that he takes the wild risks and does mad things because he fears the emptiness from the broken link will drive him mad if he does not keep his mind whirling and spinning. He feels like half a Dwarf, sometimes. 

Fili never seems to feel the loss - but Fili is changed, now. Kili hardly remembers his wild, golden brother. He came home to a careful, responsible young leader, and it chafes at him sometimes that it was Fili who broke their link, and only Kili left to suffer with it. 

Dis bids them turn and kneel before they leave, and braids their hair carefully, in formal styles that Fili could probably define and give complete histories of. All Kili knows is that they pull at his scalp and make him itchy. He will take them out as soon as he can, and leave his hair to fall free, as he prefers it. Leave the dignified bearing to Fili, he figures - after all, he’s the one who will need it. 

They head off together, shouldering packs that are the same size now, and the first few hours of their journey are little more than a pleasant stroll. It is not until they reach an ancient stone bridge over the little river their mother had forbidden them from playing in as children that they stop - and it is Fili who brings them to a halt. They sit in the grass, in the sun, and enjoy the sound of the water as it rolls along beside them.

“You know,” Fili says after a while. His voice is casual, but Kili has learned in the past twenty years to read many of his tones. He has had to. “I’ve never been further from home than this.”

He hasn’t, it is true - but Kili had forgotten that. He says nothing, and lets his arm bump against his brother’s. It’s not the link, to be sure, but it is one tiny point of shared connection between them. When Fili falls silent and says no more, Kili begins to hum deep in his throat - a song he had thought forgotten long ago.

“Don’t you ever worry at all?” Fili bursts out after a while. Kili just looks at him, and tries not to laugh. “I mean it, brother! We are setting off on a dangerous quest! We have no idea what lies before us, except for the certainty of deadly peril! We may never pass this way again. Why does it not bother you?”

Kili stands up and wanders down to the edge of the water, filling his canteen at leisure. “Because there’s nothing to fear,” he says. “The worst has already happened.”

He starts over the bridge, then, and doesn’t stop to let Fili catch up. His brother’s legs are long enough that he will make good time when he so chooses. Fili splutters behind him, sounding ready to launch into one of Balin’s speeches about responsibility, and Kili just closes his eyes and walks on, feeling the road beneath his feet and the sun on his face. Fili will not understand, and Kili knows that he cannot explain. Let Fili and the rest think him reckless and irresponsible if they like. There is no fear left in the journey for Kili.

For the first week, they wander rather aimlessly in the direction of the Shire, practicing their skills along the way. Kili learns to look for small, portable game rather than the large kills that were preferred for feeding the settlement, and Fili discovers a thousand places in his clothing to hide knives, until he bristles like a porcupine. That is all very well, until the morning when he manages to stab himself in the thigh - not a deep cut, but certainly painful - and they are both crouched over in pain. Kili hisses as it begins to recede, and throws a handful of leaves at his brother, only half in jest. 

“Grow up!” Fili snaps, already working to bandage the cut. “Stone and bone, Kili, aren’t you ever going to start taking things seriously?”

Kili tries to stifle the upsurge of annoyance he feels at the question, but it bubbles up through him, and he turns away to scowl at an inoffensive rock. “You’re not always so proper yourself, brother,” he snaps. “Don’t pretend you don’t like a joke as much as the next Dwarf.”

“That may be, but I’m not the one who causes chaos on purpose, am I?” Fili seethes as he pulls the binding tight on the wound, and Kili feels the pain at the same moment. Frustration and pain suddenly turning into anger, he spins on Fili, and cannot hold his tongue any longer. 

“Why could you not have severed the link all the way?” Fili looks up at that, more than a little shocked, and it only seems to fuel Kili’s rage. “If you were so eager to be rid of me from your life, why did you not do the thing properly? Why must we carry one another’s pain, when there is no more link between us than that?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Fili looks taken aback by his own shout, and then looks up at Kili, face shifting slowly from anger to shame. “No, that’s not true. I did, because you forced my hand. But I did not know what I was doing. I would not have pushed you away had I known that we would never get the link back.” 

“You left me alone,” Kili says quietly, gesturing toward the wide world around them. “I thought you were dead, Fili.” He advances on his brother, needed him to understand at least this part of it, this part of him. “Don’t you see, that’s why I fear nothing on this quest! The worst thing of all has already happened! Our link is gone, and I know what it is to lose you - and yet I got you back. There is nothing short of that which will ever frighten me again.”

Fili looks as if he has taken a hard blow about the head in training, and it eases Kili’s heart to see it. The rage bleeds away, and he is left with the jagged remnants of the link that ought to still bind them together. Instead, he sighs, and offers Fili a hand to haul him upright from the stump he has perched on to tend his wound. “Come on,” he says quietly. “We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”

They make it to the borders of the Shire in less time than Kili had expected. Fili has a natural skill with maps and path-finding, and for all that they aren’t talking much, they work so well together that Kili secretly thinks they could fool most Dwarves into believing they are still linked. It is likely a result of the long decades they did share a link, and the way their lives have been entwined ever since. Fili tells him that the town of Bree will be the best place to wait for a few days while they finish outfitting themselves and replacing worn gear with newer, sturdier make. 

But Bree is no Dwarven settlement, nor even a town of peaceful Hobbits, for all it’s proximity to their lands. It bristles with angry Men who watch their borders with suspicion, and see no potential good that may come of Dwarves in their lands. They are watched at all times, and it sets Kili’s teeth on edge. He behaves with nothing but the propriety and good manners that his elders have sought to drum into his head since he was no higher than Dwalin’s knee, and yet he still hears the whispers and sees the glares behind their backs. They are not wanted there.

It is the morning they set out for one Mr. Burglar Boggins’ home that it all comes to a head. Fili is checking his gear one last time, and checking to see that his twin swords, the prides of his personal armoury, are still just a sharp as they were the day before, when the Men come up from behind them both at once. It is clearly a coordinated attack. Kili is not certain until much later whether the sharp pain he feels across the back of his head was his own or his brother’s, but he does not hesitate to find out. He ducks under the arms that try to entangle him, and lets a quick, sharp bark of laughter escape him. He and Fili know how to fight Men - but these particular Men clearly do not know how to fight Dwarves.

Kili thinks, looking back on their tactics, that even Dwalin would have been pleased. They fight as a single unit, with no words exchanged. He sweeps the legs out from under a heavy-set Man who is about to club Fili in the skull, and Fili slams the hilt of his sword into the Man’s face without a second thought, leaving him groaning as the two Dwarves spin away to take on the next opponent. Kili knows exactly what his brother will do, where he will be, what tactics he will choose - and he can see that Fili predicts him just as well. The fight is over in fewer than five minutes, and they are not even breathing heavily as they look over the eight groaning bodies sprawled in the dust at their feet. 

“Bit of a poor showing, really,” Fili says with a smirk, dusting off his sleeves. “I’m not sure their hearts were in it.”

Kili wrinkles his nose as he looks down at them, schooling his expression carefully. He will not display open amusement at their fate, because he has learned the folly of antagonising even an apparently-defeated foe too many times at Dwalin’s capable hands. “You Men are fortunate you ran into us, and not our mother,” he says, using the deepest, most serious tones he can muster. Fili is snickering at him behind his back, he knows. He doesn’t even mind. “She would have taught you a thing or two about meddling with Dwarves. She once took out most of a pack of raiders single-handedly. You would have been no more than a nuisance to her. ” They hoist their packs in unison, walking away from the site of the fight without a backward glance. 

After a few minutes, Fili moves close enough to bump arms with Kili. “How’s the head, little brother?”

“Standing higher than yours!” Kili shoots back, then stops to consider. “Glancing blow. I wasn’t even certain it was my injury.”

“I was,” Fili mutters. “Yours always hurt more than my own.”

For some reason, that makes Kili’s throat go tight all of a sudden, and he stares forward at the gently rolling hills of this peaceful land. It is only a moment before Fili stops them both, grabbing his arm with a quick hand, and swings Kili around to face him. 

“You must know,” he says urgently. There is no laughter in him now. “I was wrong to break the link. It was my own fault, and no failing of yours, that lay behind the separation. I would give anything to have it back, my brother.”

Kili feels something in his chest loosen that has been tight and hard for twenty years now - the certainty that he had done something unforgivable and pushed away his brother, the soul closest to his own. He grips Fili’s arm in return, and tries his best to push everything he is feeling forward - not through a now-useless link, but through his own smile and gaze. 

“I would as well,” he says honestly. “But Fili, don’t you see? We don’t need it any longer. We fight together as well as any linked Dwarves I have ever seen.”

“Because of the partial link?”

Kili shakes his head slowly. “No. When we were children, we were close because we were connected, mind and soul. Now, it is a closeness of our own choosing.” He feels a smile bubbling up, and makes no effort to keep it down. “We are as linked as ever we were, brother.”

Fili nods slowly, and releases his hold on Kili’s arm to clap him on the back. They move on again in tandem - as brothers, bound together by something that has proven more durable than any link - and Kili hums an old song low in his throat as they march. They are strangers in strange lands, now, but his heart is light. His brother is at his side. They will not be parted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So herein you see a project that was meant to take ten days, and wound up taking the better part of a year. I don't really quite know why it became so difficult to finish, but I am determined not to leave such things undone. I reread the story both in chronological order and in this mixed-up fashion once I had finished, and I actually like it both ways! The scrambled-time version is just a little more interesting, I think. 
> 
> If you manage to make it all the way to the end, my sincere and unstinting thanks. This was a fun project despite the delay, and I'm pleased to have gotten to share it with you! I love you all.


End file.
